


after the storm

by luxetnox



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, [judge voice] court is in session, canon is gently altered, hawwy pottah au uwu, healer haze, just a leetle bit, knights of ren: reimagined, reporter eevee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23061271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxetnox/pseuds/luxetnox
Summary: night has always pushed up dayyou must know life to see decaybut i won't rot, i won't rotnot this mind and not this heart,i won't rot





	after the storm

_June, 1999_

The whispering starts on a Monday.

She might have cared, once; might have asked— asked her _friends_ what the drama was about, back when Hogwarts gossip was all about crushes and Quidditch and classes.

Now she feels irritation crawl up her spine as she catches Mediwitches bent together over a counter, whispering excitedly about the latest Daily Prophet: whatever new tidbit about the post-War efforts must have their attention. _Again_.

Hazel Elise is sick of it.

They still have patients recovering from the War. They _would_ have patients for years to come, trying to overcome whatever horrors they’d faced. Now — a mere month after the Final Battle — is not the time to be _gossiping_.

She just wants to move on. To recover quietly, and watch the Wizarding World rebuild itself _quietly._ She is tired. Sometimes her fingers shake for hours and refuse to stop. She absolutely does not want to obsess over the new information that pours out about the War every day.

“Hi, Hazel,” someone greets her brightly, one of her fellow Mediwitches lifting her head from the Prophet. Hazel is too tired to think of her name, weary from four days of double shifts.

“Hi,” she mumbles with a vague nod, turning quickly to head to her rooms for the morning. She doesn’t want to be pulled in.

The entirety of St. Mungo’s seems to be talking about it, though. It feels like the whispers are following her, a constant plague that won’t go away; snatches of conversations that echo of the War and trials and _consequences._

Her first patient folds up a copy of the Prophet neatly as Hazel runs a diagnostic spell and asks cheerfully whether she’s seen the news.

“No, I haven’t,” she says politely, resigning herself to the fact that little old Miss Collins is chatty on the best day and downright unstoppable on the worst.

But all Miss Collins does is sigh and say, “Oh, well. I thought you might know them. Seems like your age, you know, but all you chits these days look the same age to me… I met the most darling child the other day—“

All Hazel has to do is smile and nod as the old woman goes off on a tangent, and she is relieved. 

But she spends the rest of her shift unable to shake the unease that settles into her bones, working doubly hard to avoid hearing what precisely everyone is gossiping about now.

—

Two long shifts and endless days later, Hazel is sitting in a quiet corner of the Leaky struggling to stay awake as she waits for her order. She is not in the mood to be out, but after so many days working back to back she is fresh out of food in her flat and too knackered to do anything about it just then.

Besides, it’s noon on a Thursday; the Leaky is tamer than normal, filled with the working lunch crowd.

So she is surprised when Evelynn Decipio slides into the booth across from her and folds her arms across the table top primly. For a moment Hazel is struck with the sudden thought that she's forgotten an appointment, Eve is so matter-of-fact about it, and she _looks_ like she's dressed for a meeting. "Hello, Hazel. How are you holding up?"

Hazel _knows_ Eve, of course. They were friends, to a degree, at Hogwarts: seeing one another in passing at S.P.E.W. meetings or working together in D.A. meetings their fifth year. And then, of course, there was the Order — but Hazel tries not to think about _then_.

She does not know why Eve is here now, though, or what on Earth she is talking about. Because by this point she is fairly certain they did _not_ have plans. 

“Sorry?” she asks, perplexed and sleepy, and sits back to frown at the former Gryffindor in puzzlement. She tries to remember the last time she even spoke to Eve directly and shies away from the memories, certain they will not clarify anything.

“You know,” Eve says, frowning slightly in a manner that might be sympathetic, but could just as easily be disappointment in a delay in the information she seeks. “With the Trials coming up. I know they were your friends. Really, I thought maybe you even knew about…”

Ah.

The Prophet news.

Hazel feels ridiculous immediately; of course that was Eve was asking about. The girl had always been right on the heels of all of the gossip at Hogwarts, and had followed up her role as information hotbed during the War as a reporter for the Prophet. She should have known.

“I haven’t read it yet,” Hazel says, cutting off whatever tangent thought Eve had been going off on, and then flushes slightly in her embarrassment for being so abrupt.

Eve stares, affronted, and Hazel wonders if maybe it was one of _her_ articles. “Hazel, it has been in the news for _days._ ”

“I’ve been busy,” she defends, because it is easier than saying _I don’t want to talk about the War_. “I just got off the end of… oh, an eight day stint, really, and I haven’t had—”

“Hazel.”

She stops, and Eve is leaning forward slightly, her brows furrowed the slightest bit in concern. “You should read it. Get some rest first, though. I will owl you over a copy for later…” A beat of hesitation. “I think you will want to see it.”

The trickles of unease that had planted themselves in her spine days ago creep back up to haunt her. She doesn’t _want_ to read it. She doesn’t want to know why Eve is looking at her like that, what she thought was interesting enough to come over and talk to Hazel.

She just wants to sleep.

“Right,” she says after an uncomfortable moment of silence, and tries not to seem relieved when her food arrives and Eve excuses herself.

“Take care of yourself, Hazel,” the redhead says in parting, and it doesn’t settle her nerves the slightest.

—

She sleeps for 13 hours and finds a parcel on her kitchen counter when she wakes. The dread comes back immediately.

The Prophet is folded into quarters, the front page hidden, and there is a note from Eve on top. She skims it quickly, rereads it a few more times, and finally admits to herself that she is delaying. She forces her fingers not to shake as she finally spreads the cursed article out on the counter.

 _KNIGHT TRIALS ANNOUNCED: MINISTRY REVEALS DEATH EATER SPIES?_ , greets her from the top in thick, blocky letters.

Her fingers still. She blinks.

Hazel isn’t certain what she was expecting, but somewhere deep in her heart she knows there had been worry. They are still trying to determine what happened to everyone during the War; every week news comes out about the families returning from far corners of the world, about those who had died, bodies that had only recently been identified—

She shuts down the thought. She is not thinking about it. That’s not what this is.

Instead, she sees that the article is indeed one of Eve’s, and almost feels guilty for avoiding it for so long. As she skims through it she feels even worse; the news is _good_ , almost. A bit of a relief.

During the War, some of the Order had suspected that they had help on the other side; it was a popular rumor, one almost tinged with hope. All this tells her is that it might have been _true_ , if these so-called Knights were being investigated and tried on account of their actions during the War.

Something in her settles, knowing that it is possible it was all true. She feels a little better, looking back, knowing that there had been a glimmer of Light out there. And then she flips a few pages to the continuation.

She stops breathing.

There had been no pictures on the front page’s portion, presumably to leave room for more of the pressing details, but here — here, nine familiar faces peer back at her.

Her fingers shake. It is like looking at ghosts: the photos are old, standard portraits from Hogwarts— from _sixth year_ , even, the last time so many had been seen— they smile in ordinary, mundane fashion, and it is like being punched in the gut.

Hazel drops the paper.

 _My Floo will be open_ , Eve had written, neat and precise, and Hazel doesn’t think. She just backs away, turns, and steps straight into the fireplace.

Evelynn is nestled on a couch in front of the Floo, buried under a blanket as she jots note in a journal. As Hazel steps through, she straightens up immediately, looking alert. “Haz—“

“He’s alive,” she says, feeling numb and overwhelmed and— _everything_ all at once, “They’re all alive.”

And then she starts sobbing.

—

_September, 1991_

Hazel Elise met her first and only best friend on the train to Hogwarts. At the time, it felt very much like she had gained a secret advantage over all the other students starting their new lives as wizarding students; it didn’t matter much to her if many of them had grown up in this world, or that they might even know how to use some magic already, or that they had 11 whole years to be used to this wizard business. _She_ had a best friend, and therefore she could conquer the world.

She found him in one of the far back compartments, where she had planned to tuck away and watch through the window as witches and wizards — _witches and wizards!_ — bid goodbye to their parents, sought out friends, and climbed aboard the Hogwarts Express. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to her that anyone else might already be hiding in the back until she was flinging a compartment door open and stopping to stare at the boy inside.

He had a dark mess of curls and a matching mess of dark freckles across his nose and cheeks, but the darkest thing about him was the scowl he shot in her direction. Hazel blanched, unprepared for such bitter attention, and the boy’s expression immediately eased, shifted into something almost apologetic.

“Hullo,” he said, beating her to it, “Do you want to sit?”

No, she did not want to sit, but now it was a matter of pride, so Hazel sat and eyed the boy warily. He was pale, smooth skin a stark contrast to his dark hair, and up close she noted that his eyes were also very pale. Blue, maybe. Very much her opposite, and she immediately assumed he was _born_ a wizard.

“I’m Bast,” he supplied, offering her his hand, and Hazel stared at it before she cautiously supplied her own. He shook once, and she extracted herself awkwardly from the situation. Definitely a born wizard. He was _strange_ and so very proper.

“Hazel Elise,” she informed him, trying to affect the same level of low grade aristocracy that he did, and to prove that _she_ did not need to be born a witch. And that she was not afraid of him, even if that look he had given her was, in fact, scary.

“Nice to meet you, Hazel.” She noted that he did not clarify his _full_ name, which felt a bit rude, given she had given hers. Maybe not so proper, then. “Are you Muggle-born?”

She shifted, unnerved by his guess, and patted absently at her wild curls. Could he tell? Was it her hair? Did she _look_ like a Muggle? She was already wearing her robes, after all. Surely not. “Yes.”

“Do you like the Muggle world?” he questioned, apparently unbothered, and she felt herself relax slightly. Maybe he couldn’t tell. Maybe it was just a good guess.

It was easy to talk to him, after that. She told him about the Muggle world, and her childhood, and learned that he was, in fact, born a wizard — pureblood, really, and that he thought it strange that she referred to him as being “born” as such. (“You were born a witch,” he pointed out, “You just didn’t know it,” and _that_ stumped her, briefly.) He bought her Chocolate Frogs when the Trolley Witch came and seemed disinclined to listen to her protests, and by the time they were approaching Hogwarts, Hazel felt all of her doubts had eased and felt a radiant happiness bloom in her chest. Yes, this was going to be _brilliant._

“Bast,” she said, catching the sleeve of the cloak that he was shrugging on as they stood and collected their things. He looked down at her hand, curious, and Hazel snatched it back quickly. “Let’s be best friends, okay?”

He looked up at her and grinned then, boyish and pleased, and nodded. “Sure.”

And that was that.

—

Only that was _not_ that, or not quite as simple as she had assumed it would be.

—

The Great Hall was wide and open and wondrous, and Hazel could do nothing but gape at it — the charmed ceilings, the laughing students, the magnanimous professors — as they shuffled through along in line.

Something giddy erupted in her chest, and she turned to beam at Bast in excitement. “It’s _wonderful_.”

She had stopped feeling silly for gushing about the Wizarding world to him; she had learned very quickly that Bast didn’t find it strange at all, and that _he_ had a lot of questions about the Muggle world, too.

He smiled back at her before looking around, nodding absently. “Yeah. I haven’t seen anything like Hogwarts, either. The Charm work is crazy.”

Interest sparked and she wanted to ask him to tell her everything he knows, but then someone was — _singing_. No: a _hat_ was singing.

She gaped. Beside her, Bast laughed quietly at her expression, and cheers went up from the tables and tables of students. The Hat kept singing, and she found herself giggling quietly, swept up in the thrill of excitement as she realized that they are about to be Sorted.

She could ask about the Charm work later.

The Hat started with the As, and Hazel grabbed Bast’s wrist in delight. He glanced down at her, and she flushed, but she smiled anyway and whispered, “Good luck, Bast!”

He stared back at her, and then _he_ flushed and mumbled a “you, too.” And then the Hat was shouting, “AURELIUS, BASTILLE,” and he was stepping away.

The Sorting Hat doesn’t hesitate to put him in Slytherin, and Hazel cheered along with the far-off table, clapping to herself as she watched Bast step down from the stool. He didn’t look surprised, and she wondered if she would be with him, too.

She hoped so. And she was practically vibrating with tension when her own name was finally called — “ELISE, HAZEL” — and she was able to settle onto the stool, too.

“ _Hmm,_ ” the Hat whispered in her ear, and she jumped in surprise before letting out a quiet laugh. “ _Thought about Slytherin, did you? No, I don’t think that’s quite right. You might be loyal to your friend already, but I think that’s because you’re…_ ”

Hazel froze, holding her breath, and beamed when the Hat announced for everyone, “HUFFLEPUFF!”

She turned, grinning as a whole table of yellow-clad students cheered, and spotted Bast clapping for her from Slytherin. Hazel waved at him before heading for her own table, practically skipping.

She had no idea what it really meant to be in Hufflepuff, aside from the bit of song, but she felt — _warm_ , awash in a glow of happiness and belonging as her new Housemates welcomed her. It felt right.

Hazel was still smiling to herself when she finally got situated at the table, whispering her request to her goblet as instructed. Awe tumbled through her as it shifted and changed for her.

“Sorry about your friend,” an older girl with flowing blonde hair said sympathetically from beside her, and Hazel turned to look up at her with a blink, ripping her attention away from magic.

“Sorry?” she echoed, confused, and cast another glance hastily in Bast’s direction. Had something happened and she’d missed it? Everything had seemed perfect a moment ago.

“Yeah, too bad he ended up with the snakes, but don’t worry about it; you’ll make new friends with us,” the girl continued cheerfully, offering Hazel what she probably thought was a reassuring smile.

New friends? Baffled, she wanted to ask why she had to make _new_ friends, why she couldn’t keep Bast, but instead she just frowned slightly and nodded. She _wasn’t_ worried. She and Bast had promised to be best friends, snakes or not, so surely that was still true.

Right?

—

They were escorted away by their Prefects at the end of dinner and she didn't get a chance to talk to Bast again, but she was standing outside the Great Hall _early_ the next morning, clutching the strap of her bag tightly. She understood a little better, now: those students who _grew up_ with magic told her more about Hogwarts, and how the Houses worked, and how they didn't really _get along_ with Slytherins. They were too... mean. 

But Bast was her _friend_ , and she had spent all night worried that now he wouldn't be. It was hard to get carried away with meeting her new Housemates and roommates and being _excited_ when she was so stressed about losing her _best friend_ already. It'd only been a day! 

She bit her lip. She fiddled with the sleeves of her robes, adjusted the bandana wrapped tight around her wrist. She shifted her weight once, twice, and then stood straight again. 

She was starting to feel stupid, standing there and waiting when only a few students were coming to breakfast yet, and she felt worse when some of the older ones glanced at her curiously in passing. Probably wondering what the Muggle-born first year was doing, standing around all alone, looking awkward. She flushed, and clenched the strap of her backpack harder as she resolutely looked across the hall at... the wall. Right. 

"Haze?"

The girl turned quickly and beamed when she saw Bastille standing there. He was alone, the knot of his green and silver tie still undone and robes missing, but he was looking at her just the same as he did yesterday on the Hogwarts Express: curious, friendly, unbothered by her presence. 

"Bast! Hi. Good morning," she greeted, smiling, and then felt silly all over again. He was still talking to her, so clearly her Housemates had been wrong. "I was just— I wanted to get breakfast. With you, actually. I didn't get to talk to you, and I wanted to see how you like your House, and your dorm..."

He blinked at her, looking mildly surprised, and then he smiled back. It was half-way and crooked, but Haze was starting to realize that he just didn't smile very wide, _ever_. "Oh. Um— Yeah, let's eat. I didn't think... Well, nevermind."

"What?" She frowned at him, puzzled, but he shook his head. 

"Nothing. Let's get breakfast, Haze. Do you like your Housemates?"

All of her unease melted away.

—

_June, 1999_

"Tell me everything you know," she says, hours later when she is wrapped in her own blanket on Eve's couch with a cuppa. It doesn't seem to matter to the Gryffindor that it is somewhere around 3 a.m. and that Hazel has been in her home bawling rudely for quite a while. ("I'm sorry," she had sobbed, overwhelmed, and Eve had reminded her of Scotland.)

She's ready to hear it now, she thinks. She has purged the shock and the sorrow and the terror and the downright _misery_ and she is empty now. She is ready to feel... something else. She just isn't sure what that is yet.

It feels a little bit like relief. 

"So, you were not aware of... any of it?" Eve asks, shifting a pillow into her lap. She's been marvelous, wonderful, really; Hazel is pretty sure she's been holding onto that question for a while, but she hadn't said a thing while she cried. She thinks of what she'd said, at the Leaky: _I thought maybe you even knew..._

"I didn't know about any of it," Hazel confirms, and digs her fingers into her blanket. She doesn't know how she feels about _that_ , either.

Did he know? Was it always planned? Why didn't he tell her? 

"Okay," Eve says and leans back, frowning in thought. "Okay. You should know all of them. The Aurelius's." Hazel tries not to flinch. "Helling. Makara. Venice, Bellator, Jonnas, Vos, Sibyl." She ticks them off on her fingers as she goes, sounding every bit the reporter. "The Ministry is calling them the Knights of the Order. I have not heard much, not even from my sources, but it sounds like they were recruited to act as double-agents. Not many knew about it, and a lot of the originators of the plan are dead. They are going on trial with the Wizengamot next week."

"Why are they being tried if they were with the Order?" Hazel is proud when her voice doesn't shake, even as her thoughts loop and loop around the list of names. Around her _friends_. Around—

"Well, that's the thing: they _say_ they were with the Order, but things got complicated during the War. No one is really sure what exactly happened any more, and they _are_ Death Eaters, so they have to be tried. It is more of a public investigation." 

Eve sounds just a touch too pleased by this, but Hazel tries not to let it bother her; she thinks instead of the D.A. and how Eve had treated everything like a challenge to be beaten or a riddle to be picked apart and solved. A public investigation _would_ excite her. Once upon a time, it might have excited Hazel too.

 _They_ are _Death Eaters._

"Right," she says slowly, and stares down at her fingers. Things got complicated. Yes, she knows; she wants to believe that things cannot have gotten _that_ complicated, that this... story is _real_ , but it has been years. Years. She doesn't know any of them any more. They might not know her, if they saw her. She's just... she's surprised. Numb. Doesn't know what to do with this new information. 

She feels like she's hearing about strangers, still. Like her heart stopped beating when she saw those photos and now she is just waiting for it to come back online and for everything to make sense again. 

There is silence for a moment, and then: "I will be attending. If you would like to accompany me, that is. I will be there."

Hazel considers it. She is rarely in the Ministry these days, hasn't been to any of the number of trials and sessions that the Wizengamot has called in the last few weeks. She has had no interest, and something in her gut twists and trembles at the thought of going _now_. She doesn't know if she can. She doesn't know if she can _not_. 

"Yeah," she says softly, linking her fingers together. "Yeah, maybe."

They don't talk for a while. 

—

She sleeps on Eve's couch, and there is another note waiting with Artemis when she wakes up. _Had to go to work_ , Eve's neat scrawl informs her, _Let me know if you need anything. Trials start on Monday. I will be in the Atrium at half 8._

Her heart is beating again, but it beats slowly and sluggishly. Monday. 

She goes home, stepping quietly through the Floo, and wanders to her bedroom. She's still not sure how she feels about anything; can't imagine watching the Wizengamot proceedings in three days; can't imagine seeing... any of them in _three days_. 

"I thought you were dead," she whispers into the quiet of her room, staring down at her bedding. Hazel feels silly, talking to herself, but she also feels like she has to say it: "I thought you left me. I thought you'd left me, or you were dead, or— you were _gone_." 

Silence. Nothing, of course. 

Hazel takes the next week off at St. Mungo's, using all of the holiday time she has to spare. She cancels dinner with Atty. She finds the Prophet that she left behind, reads it, and folds it carefully on her nightstand. 

She goes back to sleep, after that, and doesn't wake up until Sunday. The first thing she does is owl Eve to let her know that she'll meet her in the Atrium the next morning. 

After, she has admin to do, and she does it. She doesn't think about anything else. There is nothing else to think about, not yet: she doesn't have answers. She doesn't know how to feel. 

She can deal with that tomorrow. 


End file.
